


Behold, A Hero's Grave

by clarnicamhalai



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen, Regulus just wants some recognition, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, wizarding folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 06:03:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarnicamhalai/pseuds/clarnicamhalai
Summary: Hermione receives peculiar visitations from a boy that only she and baby Teddy can see; a Post-War tale in three parts.





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted to ff.net in 2011 - I'm moving some of my old stories across and editing them a bit after having a break from writing. Title inspired by the following excerpt from ‘Celtic Myths and Legends’ by T.W Rolleston, out of the section ‘The Recovery of the Tain’.

Till the death he craves be given; and, upon his burial stone  
Champion-praises duly graven, make his name and glory known;  
For, in speech-containing token, age to ages never gave  
Salutation better spoken, than, “Behold a hero’s grave.”

 

||1||

For the fourth time in a week, Hermione woke in a cold sweat, flailing against her bed sheets in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. With a violent tug, she ended the tussle and fell out of the bed, landing heavily on the floor. She groaned, but didn’t move for a few minutes, waiting instead for her breathing to ease back into regularity. Climbing to her feet, she pushed the bushy hair from her eyes and rubbed her hands over her face. The night visions were getting worse.

Harry had fulfilled the prophecy almost five months ago, defeating Voldemort for the final time and ending his reign of terror for good, but the suffering was yet to ease. Too many good people – innocent men, women and children – had been murdered unmercifully and that weight fell heavily upon the shoulders of the living. Harry had been nigh inconsolable for the first two weeks, until Andromeda Tonks had brought forth her Black heritage and let loose a stern lecture based mostly on Teddy’s well-being, forcing Harry back into the present where people he cared about were in greater need than those who had already fallen and were at peace amongst the Dead. As a result, Harry had immersed himself into his Godfather duties, taking on the role of pseudo-parent so adeptly that Teddy’s normally blue hair now had a tendency to paint itself black as night while his eyes flashed emerald green.

For her own sanity, Hermione had enveloped herself in the reconstruction of Wizarding Britain, as well as that of the muggle disaster zones caught in the midst of the war. Anything to keep her mind off the deaths of so many she knew and loved. But even now, with nearly half a year gone by, the pain arose unexpected at times and she would have to fight to hold back tears. Usually it was when she saw George, because she knew now that she could never be mistaken in which twin had arrived, but just as often, if she let her mind wander, she’d remember scenes from their earlier years and accidentally recall the face of a fallen student, like Colin Creevey, or a teacher, like Remus.

Unfortunately, despite her attempts to control her world during the daylight hours, sleep proved difficult. Nightmares were vivid, dreams were hazy and filled with faces she’d never see again, and, on occasion, faces she’d never had the chance to see in life. Dreamless Sleep worked sometimes, but she was loath to rely on it too much – overdoses were all too common with Dreamless Sleep.

Heaving herself up from the floor and out of her thoughts, Hermione padded quietly to the bathroom and turned on the shower, desperate to clear her head. “It’s no good thinking of things that can’t be changed,” she murmured to her reflection in the plain muggle mirror on the vanity as she had so many times in the last few months, taking in the baggy eyes and dull pallor of her skin.

What _hadn’t_ happened the last hundred times was the snide male drawl of, “Oh, take your own advice already,” that came from somewhere over her left shoulder.

Hermione screamed. Spinning around, she grabbed the closest available weapon and planted her feet in a defensive stance.

_Bollocks. Oh well, you play with what your dealt, and all that_ , she thought as her fingers wrapped around the slender neck of the hairbrush handle.

She clutched it tightly, and in her fighting pose observed the owner of the voice as he sat unconcerned on the closed toilet seat, a thoroughly irritating expression of disdain firmly in place on his patrician face.

“Who the bloody hell are you, and how did you get inside this house?” she demanded angrily, wishing desperately that she’d been paranoid enough to bring her wand into the bathroom.

The boy had dark wavy hair, the silken locks reminding her glaringly of Sirius Black (whose house Grimmauld Place had once been) tied back at the nape of his neck in a rather old-fashioned way, grey-green eyes staring while one sculpted eyebrow curved mockingly at her.

“Talk! Or I’ll-”

“What? Throw a hairbrush at me?” he interrupted patronisingly with a drawl that sounded all too much like Lucius Malfoy. She almost shuddered, but her indignant feeling beat it down and she scowled instead.

“Who are you?!” she demanded shrilly, rearranging her hold on the brush for quick release should she need to throw it.

“Honestly,” the boy sniffed disdainfully, “they call you the brightest witch of your generation and you can’t even recognise the one person that saved all your souls from Lord Voldemort by delivering the Light the sole path to his downfall!”

Hermione was perplexed, her eyes wide throughout his haughty rebuff.

“Professor Snape?” she ventured tentatively, disbelievingly, after a minute’s silence, loosening her grip on the wooden brush handle, but the boy’s face grew even more disgusted.

“No! Not Severus-bloody-Snape, you stupid witch,” he denied crossly, managing to look impressive despite his position atop the loo. “Regulus Arcturus Black!”

The petite brunette gaped at him for several long seconds, taking in the now so obvious Black cheekbones that had made post-Azkaban Sirius appear so gaunt; the grey-green eyes she remembered seeing in photos from the deceased boy’s room upstairs; and the hair that wouldn’t have been out of place on Sirius’ own head.

_Speaking of heads…_

In a movement faster than even she’d expected, her hand had flung the brush right at Regulus’ head, and it was only the boy’s childhood of playing Quidditch that saved him from collecting it right in the centre of his forehead. He dived awkwardly out of the way, falling between the toilet and the bath, and when he righted himself his glare would have turned boiling water to ice.

“What the hell was that?” Regulus growled at Hermione.

“Erm, sorry, I was just trying to see if you were, well, solid. Really there,” she explained meekly, still seeming a little shocked as she stood leaning against the vanity in her pyjamas.

“And you couldn’t have asked?” he commented irately, folding his arms across his chest. “No, throw the hard, wooden object at the boy who is _sitting down, defenceless_!”

Hermione looked abashed, but pushed on: “Are you…?”

“Am I what?” Regulus snapped, still focused on his own tirade.

“Solid.”

He frowned.

“Well, I’d like to see if I could throttle you after that little fit, but I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s entirely beside the point,” he argued as she opened her mouth to speak. “You threw it at my head, and if I _had_ been solid it would have _hurt_.”

He was pouting at her, just like Teddy always did when it was time to go to bed.

It was too bizarre.

“Urgh! What is going on?” Hermione exploded, slapping a hand over her eyes. “I’m talking to a dead man in my bathroom.”

“Not _your_ bathroom; this is Black property,” Regulus interjected. “But as for the ‘dead man’, I can’t argue against that. You must be crazy.”

His voice had changed from disdainful and irate to a gay lilt that irked Hermione more than his superiority complex. She turned about-face, intent on ignoring him for the moment and stomped out of the now very steamy bathroom to collect her change of clothes. Ripping a pair of shorts and a tank top blindly out of the drawers followed by underwear, she dumped them on the tiles and had anticipated rounding on Regulus to herd him out, but the space he’d filled only seconds earlier was empty.

“Regulus?” she called, her sharp voice breaking through the silence of the house. There was nothing; not a sound besides Crookshanks mewling questioningly at her from the bed.

Shaking her head in confusion she murmured, “I really need to get more sleep at night,” before finally getting into her shower, sighing blissfully as the jets of water hit her skin, determinedly putting the strange hallucination she’d just experienced out of her mind.

||2||

The day passed like any other Friday, with Hermione skipping lunch to ensure that a piece of late paperwork that was supposed to have been completed by one of her co-workers was finished and sent off to the required Head of Department.

It had been relatively quiet, with only three people in the office, but then again Fridays were usually when people slowed to a halt, readying themselves for a weekend of relaxation – that is, if their name was anything other than Hermione Granger; she preferred to go out into the muggle world and volunteer her time there.

Stacking her completed documents into a pile, Hermione gathered them to her chest after collecting her purse, intending to drop them off at their various resting places on her way home. The pile was so huge she couldn’t see over it, but was grateful to glimpse a figure appear by the door.

“Excuse me, would you mind opening the door for me?” she asked politely, but there was neither an answer nor movement.

“Hermione? Who are you talking to?” her colleague, Penelope Pucey, seated several desks away on the other side of the room spoke up sounding baffled.

Turning more fully to face the unhelpful figure by the door, Hermione gasped and almost lost her hold on the pile of papers.

Regulus Black stood there, as clear as day to her, with arms folded and a rakish smirk on his handsome face.

“I can’t open doors. I’m not solid, remember?” he reminded her casually, looking over her shoulder at Penelope, who was either a brilliant actress, or (more likely) couldn’t see the six foot spectre hovering near the door with a lecherous spark in his eye as he ogled her tight fitting work dress. The Pucey family were well known for their consistent production of heirs that could’ve given Mary Poppins a run for her money; practically perfect in every way, indeed! But it was hard for Hermione to detest someone so polite and friendly for something as petty as looking faultlessly pretty every day, so she’d just focused on the work Penny did instead and found that she quite liked her.

“Hermione?” Penny called again worriedly, moving to stand up.

“Nobody- nothing; don’t worry, Penny,” Hermione said quickly, waving her back down. “It was just a trick of the light. I could have sworn I saw somebody by the door – I’m carrying too many papers, I guess! Anyway, I’ll see you on Monday.”

With an awkward wave and an even more awkward opening of the door, Hermione disappeared into the hallway, not bothering to see if her dead guest had followed. She didn’t have to worry.

“So, _Hermione_ ,” the image of Regulus said, elongating her newly discovered name annoyingly. “It seems you’re seeing dead people. By which I mean yours truly.”

“You think?” she snapped waspishly, shoving a stash of papers through one pigeon hole.

_What in the bloody-blazing-hell was going on? The only dead people she should be seeing were real life ghosts, or the faces of the recently fallen in her sleep, and Regulus Black was neither, however adamant he appeared about auditioning for a lead role in her daymares._

“Oh, I know,” Regulus confirmed with a smile, “because I spent quite a long time in the In-Between before coming back here as an angel to get my dues.”

Hermione goggled at him for a full five seconds before bursting into laughter.

“An angel? You? What a complete load of nonsense!” she scoffed disbelievingly.

He was no longer smiling, but glowering at her, his eyes stormy. “Quiet, witch; there are things bigger than what the living human mind can conjure at work here.”

“Sounds more like the work of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to me.”

“You would do well to listen, rather than shun.”

“What? I’m supposed to just take it all in good faith that you’re a bloody angel? That’s rubbish. More like, _Regulus_ , my missing lunch has brought on hallucinations, and the stupid sleep deprivation is finally getting to me. I don’t belie-”

“Enough.”

His voice was powerful and edgy as it interrupted her spiel, and if that hadn’t been enough to silence her, the bright flash of lightening that erupted _inside the hallway_ with a silent sensation of thunder certainly was. Gobsmacked, Hermione staggered back against the wall as the flash of white revealed a pair of black feathered wings extending from his shoulder blades out across the beige walls and ceiling of the Ministry.

He was beautiful and hideous all at once, and Hermione pressed herself as far away as she could with the wall behind her as the pressure in the air around her climbed. A split second later, the light had vanished and Regulus looked just like any other seventeen year old pureblood boy, standing in his fine black robes in the centre of the hallway with bright eyes trained on her gently trembling figure.

“Do you believe me now?”

Hermione nodded weakly, unable to find her voice.

“Good,” he breathed. “Now, get a move on. I’d like to go home, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Hermione had scrambled to finish up after that demonstration, nervously exiting the Ministry via floo and stumbling into Grimmauld Place with a definite intention to down at least half a bottle of Ogden’s – and get some answers while she was at it. The sheer awe that had flowed out of Regulus during his display of power had shaken her dreadfully – after all, it wasn’t everyday an angel presented itself to the lesser being and then decided to give a show (even if she _was_ Hermione Granger, best friend to Harry Potter – the Boy Who Lived – and had endured all manner of unbelievable quests).

Yet, on arrival, she found that Regulus had vanished. Again.

For an absurd second she thought maybe he’d missed the floo and she’d left him stranded in the Ministry, but she shook her head chiding herself softly – he was an angel, it wouldn’t be nearly so simple to get rid of him (and that was from an entirely objective perspective, she thought loudly to herself, just in case anybody was listening).

Instead of waiting to pair her drinking with answers, Hermione summoned a bottle and tumbler and, after the first reassuring gulp, proceeded to get totally smashed.

||3||

There was a large field, and in it were hundreds of garden gnomes milling about while they whistled and sang, bizarrely enough, the working song from the Disney film _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_. When they turned around she was startled to see Fred Weasley’s face staring back at her from each and every one. Looking down she realised that she was riding a pink unicorn that had two heads with familiar twinkling eyes that spoke to her in Dumbledore’s calm, clear voice as she dismounted.

“Nobody is born evil,” she was told gravely, before the unicorn began reciting poetry by Thomas Hardy. “They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest Uncoffined – just as found….”

She knew it quite well; the poem was titled ‘Drummer Hodge’, and it painted an image of the Boer War, Drummer Hodge being a young casualty of the horrors faced there. Drummers were usually young, probably a similar age to herself when she had fought in the Battle of Hogwarts, but Hodge’s final resting place, unlike those who fell during the Wizarding War, was an unmarked grave in a strange setting, far from home and forgotten. It was a humbling poem.

The unicorn started to trot away towards a large oak tree, calling out her name; “Hermione…Hermione…Hermione.”

With a sudden jolt, Hermione’s eyes flew open, the field of Fred-faced gnomes and unicorn vanishing into a hazy memory like all dreams eventually do upon waking. A dark, scruffy-haired young man with sparkling green eyes crouched in front of her in the dim light. It was morning, but the curtains of the sitting room remained drawn.

“Harry!” Hermione cried, her sleepy brain catching up to events. “What are you doing here? What’s go-“

She stopped abruptly as she swung herself into a standing position. The result of her drinking episode the night before had arrived. A stale taste in her mouth, sore eyes and a headache that rivalled any exam-stress she’d ever felt made her distinctly queasy.

“Are you alright?” Harry, ever concerned for his sister-like best friend, asked worriedly.

“Peachy,” she replied faintly. And this was why she rarely ingested alcohol. Damn that blasted Regulus, angel or no! Her foot knocked over the tumbler and Harry’s eyes widened in realisation of exactly how much she must have drunk as two further bottles – both empty – clinked against one another.

“What on ear- Hermione? Did you get sacked or something?” he asked, genuinely at a loss to understand why his normally conservative and sensible friend had done something so utterly and unfathomably out of character.

“No, it’s fine really. Just had a bit of a craving is all…” she trailed off when Harry’s brow raised disbelievingly. “I didn’t get sacked! Everything is fine,” she defended herself, before throwing in her trump card – she knew Harry wouldn’t harp after this, though that didn’t assuage any of the guilt she felt in using it (though to be fair, she had started to reminisce tearily before she’d passed out), “I just got caught up in memories…”

He swallowed thickly and nodded in understanding and wrapped her up in a comforting hug. Unfortunately, Hungover Hermione couldn’t take the added pressure against her stomach and gagged; pulling away, she darted to the bathroom and, with aim an Olympic archer would have been proud of, projectile vomited into the toilet without any mess reaching the tiled floor.

“Charming,” Harry commented drily, a hint of sadness still in his voice, as he followed her in, pulling her hair back out of her face. “I think one bottle might have been enough, Hermione.”

As she retched up everything she’d ever eaten or drunk, Hermione considered telling Harry about the here-again-gone-again apparition of Regulus – after all, Harry had rather an inordinate amount of experience in dealing with the dead in all their forms.

Being the Boy Who Lived had provided him with all sorts of strange and wonderful and _dangerous_ adventures; and being the Master of Death, well, that had been something of a mystery to everyone in the end, but it had saved him in the Battle and had brought him face to face with a multitude of spirits.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to tell him.

Regulus was an enigma. Sirius long-dead younger brother, the one who hadn’t been bold enough to run away from his family and everything he’d ever known; who hadn’t spat out the silver spoon that poisoned him with blood prejudice every day of his life; who had become a Death Eater at the tender age of seventeen, before falling far too deep and becoming entangled in Lord Voldemort’s final attempt at immortality: the Horcruxes.

Hermione made the decision, as she wiped away spittle from the corner of her mouth with a damp towel that Harry handed her, to keep mum on the subject, at least until she had a fuller idea of what the angel wanted from her, and why she was the only one who could see him.

“Feel better?” Harry asked as she got to her feet.

“Loads.”

“Brilliant. Anyway, I just popped in to say that I was thinking of bringing Teddy over today for a little bit of a play – Andromeda’s extended her holiday for another month – and you know how much Teds loves this place –weird child,” he remarked fondly.

“Oh, sure,” Hermione responded brightly, “bring him over, but just let me clear things up – won’t take a second.”

Indeed, magic shortened mundane household tasks into bare minutes, and ten minutes later Teddy Remus Lupin with a mop of unruly black hair and bright green eyes was deposited into Hermione’s welcoming arms with a happy smile. She cuddled him close, cooing and smiling at the darling child. He might have been an orphan but between his adoptive families (comprising mostly of the many branches of the Weasley tree and his grandmother and godfather) he would have his share of love.

Wrapping pudgy fingers into Hermione’s bushy curls was a favourite pastime (hence Crookshanks’ tendency to hide during visits), and, true to form, within three minutes the young metamorphmagus latched onto her hair and was yanking gleefully while Hermione and Harry tried to pry his little hands off the errant brown curl.

“Ow, ow, ow, Teddy, please let go of My-My’s hair,” Hermione was pleading in a pained voice, using the name that he called her in his baby gurgle, but the boy ignored her wilfully.

“Come on Teds,” Harry tried, “I’ll find you Crackles.”

Crackles was his favourite plaything; a plush dog toy that Hermione had altered ever so slightly to make it resemble a Crup (in other words she’d given it a forked tail, which was really the extent of her sewing talents, with or without magic). But not even the offer of his favourite toy would encourage the baby to release her hair.

“Well, the entertainment in this place has certainly gotten better,” a silken voice noted idly, causing Hermione to wrench her head around in shock, and Teddy to tighten his grip, leaving a reasonable chunk of hair clutched in tiny fingers.

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed as he stared at the prize in the young metamorphmagus’ hand. Neither she nor Teddy noticed however, because both had their attention focused unwaveringly on the striking figure of Regulus, perched carelessly in one of the large Louis XVI chairs, a forefinger resting lazily against his temple as he observed them all with an air of aloofness.

Evidently, Harry couldn’t see him, because he was still fixated on the clump of hair the combination of Teddy and Regulus had ripped from Hermione’s skull: “That’s a fair chunk of hair!” he expounded, before a proud sort of look took over and he added, “A Quidditch player in the making, I’m sure of it.”

Hermione, who until then had been staring rather obviously at the self-proclaimed angel, looked down at Teddy’s clenched fingers and realised, with some surprise, that Teddy was looking straight at Regulus, an interested sparkle in his eyes.

Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would have said.

 “Hermione?” Harry’s voice snapped her out of her reverie, and she registered how much pain was erupting on her scalp.

“Owwwww,” she groaned, wincing sharply as she ran a hand over her head, choosing to ignore the new arrival in lieu of more important things. Like finding a hair tie so Teddy couldn’t get a purchase on her head. Unfortunately, Regulus had other ideas.

“You know, you really should look after your hair better,” he noted casually as she passed Teddy back to the Boy Who Lived.

“I’m just going to find a tie, Harry,” she said more shrilly than strictly necessary, and ran out of the room and up the stairs to the bathroom, “Won’t be a moment!”

Regulus tailed her.

“Honestly, a babe shouldn’t be able to just rip it out like that,” he continued as she threw drawers open in her search.

“He didn’t; _you_ scared the living daylights out of me and I started!” she growled back, finding what she was looking for and gathering her bushy hair into a bun before securing it in place. “What do you _want_?”

She was standing defiantly and proudly before him, arms akimbo, and Regulus found that he much preferred this feisty character to the one from the Ministry that he’d frightened into submission with his angelic Presence. “I want a lot of things, darling,” he said loftily, “but right now? I’d probably say sex.”

“Urgh! You’re infuriating!” Hermione said, somewhere between exasperation and despair.

“Relax, woman,” he placated half-heartedly. “If you must know, I’m here on unfinished business. It’s the vocation of angels.”

Hermione leaned against the sink. “You know, I still have no idea what angels are supposed to be; I mean, they’ve never been mentioned in any of the books I’ve read,” she informed the hologram.

Regulus buffed his nails on the lapel of his robes. “That’s because they’re barely folk-lore. Purebloods are the ones who passed the stories down, and I’m pretty sure everybody else believes them to be a myth. Mother certainly did,” he recalled in fond distaste. “And now I’m one of the bloody things.”

“Do you know why?”

Regulus looked at her with absolute incomprehension. “Are you listening to a word I say? I just explained it,” he griped.

Hermione scowled. “Remind me.”

“Angels only pass on when their business is complete; when their human life is fulfilled,” he said slowly. “Clearly, I’m still waiting for that fulfilment. Now, we’d best be getting back to four-eyes downstairs before he comes up here and discovers you’re the crazy cat lady you’ve obviously been threatening to turn into your whole life.”

Hermione glared at the name he’d called Harry, ignored the taunts directed at herself, but acquiesced to his suggestion, slipping out of the room and descending to the ground floor to find Harry gazing at Teddy with a small frown.

“Hey, Hermione, who do we know with grey-green eyes?” he asked, confused, “Teddy’s just changed his completely out of the blue. He normally has to be mimicking someone to change eye colour.”

“Mine, clearly,” Regulus said snootily, “He’s got good taste. Black taste, even.”

_‘Well, my best bet is the dead guy hanging around the room with us. He’s Teddy’s cousin once removed, and a real snide bastard to boot!’_ was what Hermione wanted to say.

Instead, she offered, “I’ve no idea, maybe he’s started experimenting,” and tried not to glare at the angel as she feigned a moment’s thought before suggesting: “Of course, it could be their natural colour.”

Placing the child on the floor with a shrug, Harry put the tea on and the two teenagers settled down to chat (Hermione trying her damnedest to ignore the irritating, cocky angel staring at her) while Teddy occupied himself with a teething ring as he lay on his tummy and practiced his breaststroke kick.

“How is everything, Harry?” Hermione asked fondly.

“Fine, fine; getting a sight less busy these days, but I think things will pick up once everything goes back to some semblance of normal. Diagon Alley has been finished – it’s completely rebuilt now! – and the recruits, that’s my lot, we go into proper training in three weeks.”

“Oh, Harry, that’s excellent,” Hermione told him with feeling, smiling proudly, “You’ll do so well, I’m positive.”

“Yes, well, I’m certainly hoping so,” Harry replied with a charmingly goofy grin.

The conversation flowed freely, and Hermione heard all about the Weasley’s; Ron was on a sabbatical with – of all people – Luna Lovegood (only as friends he’d insisted, but Hermione couldn’t have cared less, because Luna was lovely and kind and she would be able to help him grieve and live in a way that Hermione and Harry couldn’t, and that his family wouldn’t have been able to at the time); George was putting his heart fully into the shop, his only explanation being that Fred wouldn’t have had it any other way; Bill and Fleur were expecting (this bundle of joy due on the anniversary of the Battle, heralding a new start with a new generation); Charlie had remained at home, helping his parents hold together like the force he had always been made out to be, even as his own heart had broken with the losses; Percy was welcomed back and was aiding in the reformation of the Ministry; and Ginny, she was helping to heal Harry Potter while struggling to gain her NEWTs via an advanced and adjusted course provided to War Veterans who had been at school during the War.

With a visible softness to her gaze, Hermione turned to watch the youngest addition to her variegated Wizarding family lying on the ground. He’d rolled over onto his back, and was now gurgling contentedly to Regulus, who had come to sit next to him in a very inelegant, sprawling pose and was making faces at him, much to Teddy’s delight.

Harry followed her line of sight.

“I forgot to say,” he informed her brightly, sounding ever the proud father, “Ted’s learnt to roll over. First couple of times we must have missed it because Andromeda walked in the other day and he’d rolled halfway across the room; off the blanket and away, he was.”

Hermione managed a pleased smile as Regulus looked up at them. “Just because I’m a pureblood doesn’t mean I eat babies, you know,” he drawled, sniffily closing with: “I always liked playing with Cissa when she was little.”

“-a terror when he starts walking,” Harry was saying, and Hermione realised he was looking at her to join in the conversation.

“I can imagine,” she said, hoping it would be a suitable back-channelling effort. Harry seemed not to notice anything amiss.

“Mmm. Andromeda has a whole armoury of spells though, so it should be alright. Child-proof locks, Anti-Climbing Charms, Softening Charms; honestly, they should teach this at Hogwarts. Unless you’re from Wizarding stock they’re a nightmare to find,” he confided, and then looked quizzically at Teddy. “What _is_ he laughing at?”

Harry checked his watch. “Oh, gosh, I’m supposed to meet Gin at twelve!”

“Well, you’d better get moving!” Hermione said good-naturedly, gathering up Teddy’s circus of bags for Harry, who walked _right through_ _Regulus_ to pick up the baby boy (“Oi, look out!” the angel cried out, affronted, as he did so).

When the pair vanished in a tangle of bags and flames through the floo, Regulus was standing with his hands in the pockets of his fancy, black tailored pants.

“Lovely little baby,” he said pleasantly, “Can’t say much about the other one though – walked straight through me, the rude bugger.”

Hermione fought the urge to smack her palm to her forehead. “He can’t see you.”

“Nit-picker. That’s beside the point. I don’t like him much,” Regulus reported. “The baby could see me, though. Rather interesting, don’t you think.”

“Will you just tell me why you’re here bothering me?” Hermione whined pleadingly, not really expecting him to consent.

“I already did,” Regulus told her, more than a little incredulity coating his words (she found that rather rude!), “I’m here to get my dues: recognition for my part in bringing down Voldemort. My body and memory retrieved!”

||4||

Regulus Black’s fate hadn’t been much considered by the Golden Trio aside from the initial shock and gratitude, and Hermione felt a little guilty when she realised the implications of the angel’s words. Nineteen year old heir to Orion and Walburga’s branch of the Noble House of Black, Regulus had been all alone in a violent, dangerous world, with only Kreacher to trust. Credit where credit was due however, Kreacher had done all he was asked, and had served his master faithfully until the boy-wizard’s untimely end, providing company and comfort to the lonely lad, and, despite her own grievances with the aged house-elf (they had abated in the last year, thankfully, though she would never be received with the same grace as Harry), Hermione was grateful to him for his part in the war.

Regulus had died attempting to destroy the first of Voldemort’s horcruxes in nineteen seventy-nine, telling Kreacher to leave him in the cave as the inferi rose from the depths; to take the locket and leave his master to die.

Tears welled up in Hermione’s eyes without warning as she gasped in acknowledgement; her dream – the unicorn – Drummer Hodge, the poem by Hardy! It all made sense! (Well, most of it did; she still had no idea what the two headed unicorn was about, aside from providing her with the poem’s words via Dumbledore’s serene voice.)

“Regulus,” she said softly. “You poor thing.”

And then she began to cry.

The younger Black brother hadn’t been expecting water works because he very quickly ran through several emotions and expressions (including confusion, shock, panic, and discomfort) before reaching out tentatively as if to place an elegant hand on her shoulder.

“Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry,” he begged her. “I can’t do crying girls.”

Hermione choked out a wet giggle, and hurriedly wiped her eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I – well, we, I never thought about what you did outside of what we had to do, and the end of the war kind of overtook all other thoughts-”

“Hush up; you’re rambling,” Regulus cut her off. “It’s fine, really,” he added, “I just want to be remembered; given a proper resting place.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed, nodding earnestly. “Absolutely!”

“Will you help me?”

Hermione looked up into the grey-green eyes of Regulus Black, angel, and gazed deeply for several long moments before she breathed in a strong pull of air and nodded her consent.

“I will.”

The smile that broke out on his face was beatific, and Hermione could do nothing but smile back at his relief. The boy leaned in so their faces were mere inches apart.

“If I could hug you,” he informed her earnestly, “you’d be in the tightest embrace you’ve ever felt in your life right now.”

She laughed gaily, wiping her eyes again in an effort to collect herself.

||5||

One of the absolutely brilliant benefits that came with being an Unspeakable was the way she could get away with asking for things without a detailed explanation as to why she needed to know. It was coming in handy as she cornered Harry one afternoon, intending to discover the location of the cave Voldemort had used to hide the locket. Pleading and wheedling eventually provided her with an agreement from her best friend along the lines of ‘I’ll take you there myself if you just quit harping on about it’.

So, on a windy, overcast morning Hermione woke up and prayed to Tiberius Hopkins, the weatherman on the Wizarding wireless in Grimmauld Place’s kitchen, that the skies would clear.

In a show of goodwill, by the time she and Harry arrived at their destination, they had.

Hermione stood with Harry on a craggy rock, waves crashing around them, the mild sun bearing down on them as her hair whipped around their faces in the wind.

“This is it.”

Hermione frowned.

The cave itself was barely noticeable, hidden among the cracks and weather-beaten rocks. How a young Tom Riddle had managed to get two other children in there was beyond her.

“Can we go in?” she asked, and Harry took on a pained expression. It didn’t hold very pleasant memories for him. The last time he’d been inside the cave was the night Dumbledore had died. Hermione reached over and clasped his arm comfortingly.

“If we have to,” Harry said, swallowing thickly. Hermione took pity.

“Not today, Harry. I’m sorry for asking.”

She smiled sadly, taking his arm and transported them smoothly back to Grimmauld Place.

“I hate that place,” Harry said emphatically once they’d arrived, sitting heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. Hermione pulled out a cup and saucer, preparing tea for them. Tea fixed most things, according to Molly Weasley, and it was a procedure hard not to adopt when you spent a lot of time at the Burrow.

Sipping the calming herbal tea, the two friends let a companionable silence fall over them.

Harry was washing the tea equipment the muggle way when he broke the quiet of the house. “Why do you need to know about the cave?” he asked, not unkindly. Really, she couldn’t blame him for being curious.

“It’s a special project I’ve undertaken on behalf of a third party,” she explained carefully. “The benefactor intends to acknowledge those the Ministry haven’t remembered – from both the first and second wars.”

Harry nodded, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows. “People like Regulus Black, you mean.”

Hermione was startled. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected him to piece it together so quickly, but for Harry the cave was linked almost intrinsically with the younger Black brother. He glanced back at her.

“It is, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hermione conceded. “The ones who’ve been left, forgotten as time went by, to die deaths unacknowledged, even though they were vitally important in securing Voldemort’s defeat.”

Harry was still and silent for several seconds, before he sighed, “You’re doing the right thing, Hermione.”

“I know,” she replied, smiling at him and reaching over to cover his hand with hers.

||6||

“Regulus,” Hermione asked the angel one rainy afternoon, “I don’t suppose you know how to get past Inferi, do you?”

He looked up from his intense concentration – he was trying to pick up a piece of carrot. He’d achieved a pea earlier in the week, but heavier things seemed to drop straight through him, so they’d figured slow and steady, with a slight rise in weight each time.

“If I knew how to get past Inferi, don’t you think I’d be able to pick up more than pea?” Regulus said acidly, throwing the carrot stick at her head. “You know, because I’d be _alive_!”

Hermione threw her hands up in the air. “Well, excuse me, for trying to find some information!”

“You’re not excused,” he pouted, petulance echoing through his voice. “You’ve brought up a traumatic episode of my life and it makes me unhappy to think of ‘what ifs’ like that one.”

He abandoned his carrot-carrying attempts and wandered over to the bookshelf behind her, scanning the ancient spines. Eventually he stopped at an old bound book of deep green, entitled ‘ _Deathe & the Other Worlde’_. “Here, try this one.”

Hermione stared at him, lost somewhere between the mood swings.

Regulus scowled. “Don’t look at me like that; I do want your help. I’d look myself but I can’t manage a book just yet.”

Hermione huffed out a laugh. “Start small, Reggie, start small.”

Flipping open the book, one she’d never have considered browsing before, she scanned the index for hints with Regulus peering over her shoulder.

“Look,” the young witch cried out excitedly. “There’s a section on angels. You must be classed as Other World beings.”

“Focus on the task at hand,” Regulus scolded gently and pointed to a chapter near the bottom of the page. “There! _Re-Versuls of Dark Magicks on Wakeing Dead_ ,” he read, adding somewhat musingly, “You know, they could have worked a little harder on the spelling.”

But Hermione was already palming her way through to the chapter they needed, navigating her way down the writing until she found the heading ‘Inferi’.

_“Inferi are birthed in the heart of Dark Magick, thieved from the Lands of the Other Worlde for Dark perpusses in the Mortal king dum,”_ she read. “ _Inferi are Ageless. Fleshe and Bone remayn where Bludd flees, forever Unchanged until they garde no more._ This isn’t what we need,” she mumbled under her breath and skipped a few paragraphs. “Blah, blah, blah… Ah-ha – here we go! _To destroi Inferi-”_

Regulus interrupted quickly. “We don’t want to destroy them completely, you realise. The whole point of this is to have something to recover.”

Hermione smiled encouragingly. “I’m aware, Regulus. And I’m sure it won’t come to fire and flame,” she comforted him, and looked back to the ancient book.

_“To destroi Inferi in the Mortal Worlde, their Anger muste be put to reste by receeving a sacrifyce of bludd from whosoever Imprisonn’d them in the Worlde they left at Deathe, foiling their time of being at Peace_ ,” she read, and frowned. “Well, there goes that plan. We haven’t any way of getting blood from Voldemort, ‘cause he’s dead. And even then it hardly matters, because even if he were alive we’d never be able to get any blood out of him and live to tell the tale anyway.”

“Already dead,” Regulus reminded her curtly, gesturing at his holographic body before adding more seriously, “but it’s not from Voldemort we need the blood sacrifice…”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: Voldemort didn’t create the Inferi. He delegated it to one of his most trusted followers.” The younger Black brother paused thoughtfully. “Mother used to talk of it incessantly before Cissa’s wedding.”

“Whose blood do we need, Regulus?” Hermione demanded impatiently.

The angel stared at her with bright eyes.

“That of Abraxas Malfoy.”

“Oh, great,” Hermione huffed and, after marking the page, shut the book rather more violently than needed.

The Malfoys were a heavy point of contention and controversy post-war. Neither Narcissa nor Draco had ever posed much threat, and by nineteen ninety-seven Lucius was fundamentally a prisoner in his own house, but the Malfoy family had always been a major force in the side of the Dark and their previous dalliances certainly counted against any potentially redeeming scenes in Recent Events, important though they may have been – Narcissa had lied about Harry’s survival in return for news of her son.

Ever the pureblood wife, she had subsequently been acquitted of all charges due to extenuating circumstances, and while Lucius awaited his trial in Azkaban, Draco had been released due to age constraints and Pensieve memories (collected from Harry, of all people), and was now on probation.

How Hermione was going to obtain a blood sacrifice, she had no idea. Her only hope would be Lucius or Draco, and given the former’s current residence was Azkaban, really, that left just Draco, and to be frank, they didn’t exactly have the best relationship in the world – he would have little to no inclination to aid her whatsoever and she didn’t particularly fancy asking.

“Can you get it?” Regulus asked, not aware of her history with the Malfoy family.

“Well, Lucius is in Azkaban, Narcissa’s a recluse in France, and Draco, well, the best way to describe our relationship is either non-existent or more volatile than a Hungarian Horntail with a full nest of eggs,” she confided guiltily and then sighed, “but he’s our only option really.”


	2. ii.

||1||

She was late.

Hurriedly, Hermione exited the magical elevator and darted along the corridor, gazing fleetingly at brass name plates until she found the one labelled ‘Malfoy’. She rapped on it sharply and heard a brisk voice call out, “Enter”. Taking a deep, calming breath, she slipped inside.

“Granger,” Draco Malfoy greeted with the barest pretence of civility, reminding her enormously of the late Severus Snape, his former Head of House. “To what do I owe this… _pleasure_.”

Frankly, she’d been surprised when she’d received Malfoy’s acceptance via owl post, his neat cursive detailing when and where he could be found the following Thursday. She’d refrained from explaining exactly what she needed from him in the letter she’d composed with Regulus, asking only to meet him in order to discuss some items of a delicate nature, so sitting here in the blond man’s office (he was required to be employed as part of his probation) had her feeling all kinds of uncomfortable as she prepared to brief him on her recent troubles.

He looked as intimidating as his father had in full wizarding regalia, even though he wore only an elegant pinstripe work robe. She took a fortifying breath.

“Mr Malfoy,” she started, feeling that she ought to be polite in his workplace, “how much do you know of your mother’s cousins?”

“Which ones?” Draco demanded guardedly, leaning back in his chair with a suspicious look on his face. Regardless of how things stood between them personally, Draco was on strict behavioural restrictions for the duration of his probation (and, most likely, the rest of his life).

“The Blacks,” she prompted further. “That is, Sirius and Regulus Black.”

Draco shifted slightly in his seat. “Not a terrible amount, I’m afraid,” he replied cautiously, “and probably _nothing_ that would interest _you_.”

“That, I doubt,” Hermione disagreed lightly.

“Why do you want to know?” Draco demanded of her before she could say another word on the matter. “I mean, it’s not at all relevant to your line of work, is it?”

“Well, no,” she admitted. “It’s more of a personal interest.”

“I should’ve thought Potter would be more help to you than myself; Sirius Black was his godfather, after all,” Draco noted idly. “Not to mention the fact that you’re practically _bosom_ - _buddies_.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Hermione noted dryly. “Anyway, I’ve already spoken Harry. He’s been very helpful regarding Sirius,” she lied, “but Regulus is another matter entirely. He’s somewhat of a lost figure amidst the company I keep.”

“Regulus Black,” Draco mused. “And what is it about Regulus Black that’s got you fascinated, Granger? I’m not playing this game until I know exactly what’s going on; I’m sure you can understand that a man in my position needs to know these things ahead of time. I won’t be putting my probation in jeopardy, not even for a War Heroine.”

Hermione let her gaze linger on the blond haired man. He had a sharp eye, a quick brain, and he _was_ a pureblood ( _how could she forget?_ ) which meant there was always the off chance that he could believe her story. She made her decision quickly and collected herself impressively.

“I seem to have picked up a guardian angel,” she explained frankly, “in the form of Regulus Black – and _that_ is why I need your help.”

Draco looked taken aback at first, then sceptical, and then he scoffed, “Right, angels. How did you even hear about them, anyway? That’s ancient Wizarding folklore, that is.”

“I’m serious!” she insisted, preparing to say something more when Regulus suddenly appeared on Draco’s right and she barely swallowed a scream instead, startling Draco to the point where he almost fell out of his seat.

“Merlin’s balls, Granger!” Draco yelled as Regulus perched casually on the edge of his desk, laughing eyes on the hyperventilating Hermione.

“You called,” the spectre said pleasantly. Hermione held a hand to her forehead.

“You’re an absolute arse, Regulus!” she told him angrily. “I’m trying to do this on your behalf, remember, so I’d appreciate it if you’d stop scaring the bejeesus out of me at every damn opportunity!”

Draco stared at her with a look of disturbed awe, as if he couldn’t decide whether she was crazy or telling the truth about his mother’s cousin angelic status.

“Granger?”

 She seemed to be glaring at a spot past his left shoulder.

“Granger? Hermione?” he tried. But though Draco couldn’t see or hear him, Regulus was defending his entrance and Hermione’s thoroughly irritated energy was focused entirely on the younger Black brother.

“Oh, please. You were struggling to have him believe you, admit it, you stubborn little Gryffindor” Regulus said.

Hermione folded her arms stubbornly. “I would have figured it out.”

“Hmm, after a couple of months, maybe…”

“He can’t even _see_ you!” she returned in exasperation. “Why should you make him believe any more than I can?”

“Because, dear Hermione,” he enunciated clearly, with a sly grin “I know where they keep the skeletons.”

Hermione gave up with a huff, flinging her hands in the air. “Fine,” she conceded, slouching down into her chair. “You do it then, if you’re so clever.”

“You’ll have to translate, of course,” Regulus reminded glibly **.**

“Fine,” she repeated. Regulus looked smug.

Draco watched this one-sided exchange with a mixture of interest and disbelief; aside from her obsession with homework, Hermione Granger had always seemed rather put together at Hogwarts, so, against all likeliness, he was feeling compelled to give her the benefit of the doubt.

Besides, his mother had told him the lore on angels when he was a child, and he’d always been intrigued by the concept, even if he had put it down to a ridiculous mythology.

He sat back, watching her curiously.

“Sorry for screaming,” Hermione apologised brusquely, still irritated with the angel, “but Regulus just decided to make an unscheduled appearance, and now he wants me to tell you some things to make you believe he’s still around.”

“By all means, prove his presence,” Draco allowed, opening his arms in a gesture of goodwill, not yet completely won over. It was just too bad he couldn’t see the man, Hermione thought privately. It would have made things so much easier.

She’d have to explore that, actually, when she returned to Grimmauld Place; firstly, by examining the book that had explained about Inferi. She’d been wondering since that day in the office why Regulus could be seen by her and Teddy, but not by anyone else?

“Here and now, Curly, here and now,” Regulus’ amused voice tugged her back into the present. He was ready to win over the Malfoy heir.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Draco drawled derisively.

“Alright,” Regulus approved, swinging his legs from his perch on top of the blond’s desk, “we begin now.”

Hermione sighed in woeful anticipation and prepared to relate Regulus’ words verbatim to her former year-mate. As she’d expected, there was a great deal of pureblood bigotry, some rather interesting finds concerning _very_ young mother-sisters (it doesn’t do to make mistakes with the family tree), and a mention of a Code of the Blacks that Hermione had never heard of, but was assured by Regulus that all fifteen year old Black males received its recital while their sisters and female cousins endured the acknowledgement of their arranged marriage.

 “Well,” Regulus stated contentedly at the end of his spiel. “That’s all my input. The rest is up to you, Curly.”

Hermione grimaced at the nickname.

Draco was intrigued, but quickly replaced his usual blank mask when it became clear that the bushy haired brunette was still focused on her apparition. He watched her deliver several sharp responses (and could only guess at their precursors) but was highly amused to see her twitch her head about as if there were some irritating insect flying about her head.

“This is fascinating, and all, Granger, hearing one side of a conversation,” he finally interrupted dryly, “But you flinching like that isn’t helping me think you aren’t crazy.”

She scowled and sat herself up straighter in her seat. “He’s trying to fluster me.”

Draco raised a questioning brow. “What? How?”

“It’s really very distracting,” Hermione said to Draco, staring straight over the angel’s waist. “He’s lying suggestively across your desk at the moment, but before he was… Oh, well, it’s not important anymore because the cretin has just vanished!” As soon as she’d commented on his actions, the angel had smirked devilishly and then disappeared with a cheeky grin.

“He’s definitely gone,” she informed Draco thankfully. “He’d not suffer through an insult without returning one. So, what do you think now?”

“To be honest, I still think you’re crazy,” Draco confirmed with a one shouldered shrug when she turned her gaze back to him. “But, who knows, maybe there is truth to it since I don’t think you’d lie to someone willingly and if you did I’m ninety percent sure I’d be able to pick you up on it. You’re a shocking liar, Granger.”

“Most people would consider that a good trait,” she retorted coolly.

He smirked and gestured for her to continue. “So, what’s this plan of yours then?”

Hermione gave a deep sigh of relief as she recollected her speech. “Regulus, as an angel, is here solely because he has ‘unfinished business’ – it means that the recognition or effect of his life and the decisions in it weren’t received as they should’ve been. In Regulus’ case, it was his discovery of Voldemort’s horcruxes and the subsequent sacrifice he made attempting to destroy the earthly ties of Voldemort’s spirit. His body does not rest. It is perpetually disturbed as part of the procession of the Waking Dead. Do you follow?”

Draco nodded slowly.

“Good,” Hermione stated baldly. “For Regulus to be able to move on – to finally receive his eternal rest, afterlife, or whatever else may come next – he needs to be released from the clutches of the Inferi.”

“And you need my blood to do it,” Draco realised, details finally settling into place, and Hermione smiled apologetically, “or, more correctly, the blood of my _grandfather_ which runs through _my_ veins.”

“Exactly.”

Draco leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “If, and this is a tentative ‘if’,” he cautioned, “I agree to donate my blood to this scheme of yours, what will I get in return? I’m very fond of my flesh and blood, as you well know, and there are all sorts of spells and potions to be made using bodily fluids.”

Hermione pursed her lips, but it was no more than she’d expected, really.

“I’ll help you repair your image,” she offered, knowing that the Malfoys had been struggling post-war and that image was of utmost importance in the circles they moved, “but only if you agree to a forfeit on name-calling and blood ideals.”

“That’s already part of my probation.”

“Then you’ll have no trouble transferring it to me.”

“How far are you willing to go?”

“As far as necessary,” she established. Part of the problem with rehabilitation and reinstating families like the Malfoys was the lack of support they received from the public; having a muggleborn (particularly the same one who had been persecuted in their very house) firmly on-side boded far better than keeping it among the elites.

Draco looked at her seriously, his face betraying none of what he was thinking, and then, after what seemed an age, he stood and extended a hand. “Alright,” he agreed. “But your aid comes first.”

Hermione smiled in relief and shook the proffered hand. “Brilliant.”

“That bastard wizard signed my family all into hell, you know,” Draco added almost conversationally just as Hermione reached the door. “Perhaps I can sign us out.”

||2||

“Well?” Regulus bombarded her the moment she floo-ed home. “Did he agree? Or are we going to have to stage a kidnapping and take it by force?”

Hermione grinned at him. “Somewhat surprisingly, he _has_ agreed to help. There are a few stipulations that I’ve got to meet before he’s willing to hand it over, but that’s better than nothing.”

“Excellent,” Regulus fairly sang the word, but Hermione was already moving towards the bookshelf to find _Deathe & the Other Worlde_. “He wouldn’t be a true Slytherin if he hadn’t asked for something in return. What are you doing?” Regulus asked nosily, trotting over to see what was in her hands. “Again? We’ve already been through that section as thorough-”

“Not Inferi,” Hermione interrupted. “I’m looking at what it says about angels. Everything I’ve heard so far, which admittedly isn’t a lot, seems to be all over the place. And, since I’ve never come across it before, I must confess to being rather curious about it – so do try and be quiet,” she added significantly, “while I read and pick up on my research.”

“Curiosity killed the crup,” Regulus warned her idly but did as he was bid and settled cross legged on the chaise lounge opposite.

“And satisfaction brought it back,” Hermione replied only half-consciously; she was already buried deep in the words of the ancient text.

The information it held was fascinating, but typically had nothing written about who could see them and why. Sure, what they were, theories behind who became one and plenty of images (some clearly fabricated and others rather on the money) were to be found, but nothing regarding their human observers. The second time through, however, Hermione glimpsed an addendum squished into the most minute space of the decorative page border and she leant close to try and make out the hand-written note.

It read something like: _Archangel; angels of_ [the next few words were illegible, before it continued] _redeemers, a select few as_ [again it was hard to decipher; Hermione guessed the word to be ‘chosen’] _by aura. Page 137: Diary of Michael Gabriel._

“Michael Gabriel,” Hermione murmured, intrigued, as Crookshanks made his way over to her, ginger tail held jauntily in the air. She turned to him and smiled fondly, scratching him behind the ears and causing a loud rumble to rise in his throat, “I wonder where I can find this diary? Any ideas Crooks?” she pondered and was startled when the part-kneazle made a sudden, deft jump away to disappear into the hallway. A moment later he was back, a crumpled piece of paper in his mouth, climbing onto her lap to push his prize into her arms. She took it from him, and Crookshanks, pleased with his work, settled there, purring smugly.

“Of course – clever Crooks,” Hermione praised upon seeing the Hogwarts crest on the letterhead, cuddling her familiar against her happily and dropping a kiss on his fluffy orange head.

“What’s that?” Regulus interposed.

“Up for a trip to Hogwarts?” she said by way of answering the angel, looking at him with eager eyes.

“Always,” he replied brightly. “But why?”

“I think I’ve found something that might be able to explain why I can see you.”

Penning a short letter, Hermione flooed it through to the Headmistress to request visitor’s entry to the library and was pleased when she received a prompt agreeable reply. Since Hermione was such a trustworthy and important figure for the school, Minerva had written, she would allow her to come through that afternoon at two-thirty, if it suited, via the floo of the Headmistress’ Office.

Hermione wrote back her affirmation and thanks then prepared her trusted blue beaded bag, packing anything that might come in useful. “Ready?” she asked Regulus, who had been tailing her and darting out of her way (though she’d probably have been able to move through him) as she collected a miscellany of objects and notes and books.

“Born,” he quipped. “How are you going? Floo?”

“Yeah,” she said, grabbing a pinch of the required powder off the pot on the mantelpiece. “I’ll see you there, then.” In a flash of emerald flame she was engulfed and transported to Headmistress McGonagall’s office.

“Hermione,” the elderly witch greeted pleasantly. “How are you, my dear?”

“Wonderful, Professor,” she replied, smiling cheekily. The older woman had tried to convince her that the appellation was redundant now and that she might very well use Minerva, but Hermione just couldn’t do it. She would always be, first and foremost, Professor McGonagall, regardless of their shared past experiences.

“Now, you wished to use the library?” the Headmistress prompted.

“Yes,” Hermione concurred. “There’s a specific book I need that’s in the Restricted Section, I believe.”

“If you wish to remove it from the library I shall have to sign it out, but other than that there are no stipulations, my girl,” her former Head of House instructed. “Shall I escort you?”

“Only if you wish it,” Hermione replied with a smile. “After all, I know how to find it.”

“I’m well aware,” McGonagall laughed, eyes twinkling. “I will come, and you can tell all the things that have been happening in the last few months. I’ve heard barely a thing about your doings lately.”

The walk was familiar and pleasant, and, when she farewelled her old teacher, Hermione resolved to see more of her extended Wizarding family. Entering the library quietly, she was pleased to be reminded that classes didn’t start for another month or so and vanished into the stacks of the Restricted Section only to be alarmed by the loud voice of her spectral friend sitting on a nearby table.

“I found it!”

“ _Regulus_ , _must_ _you do that every time_!” she hissed, clutching her chest.

“For the amusement,” he replied gravely, “Yes.”

“Arse.”

“You love me.”

He jumped down to the floor and pointed at a prettily bound book of black leather and silver inlaid writing which Hermione carefully removed. Turning to page one hundred and thirty-seven she took in the title: _Angels of Incompletion_.

Below, she was frustrated to see only runic markings. It had been a while since she’d needed to translate that much text. On the plus side, Ancient Runes had been her best class. She set to work, Regulus equally fixated on the task as she was, the pair occasionally working together to decipher the diary entry.

Three hours passed before Hermione paused to read the passage. Regulus waited with a curious edge.

_Tonight I met Anneliisa for the third time_ [it read]

_She spoke to me of her kind; of the Angels and their purpose; of my ability to see them. Anneliisa is the Archangel, the eldest of them all, unable to fulfil the life she tragically departed. She told me that there are two types of Angels. I have only heard tell of one of these, the vengeful spirits who serve retribution to their murderers or the ones who wronged them in life._

Hermione paused, glancing at Regulus, but his brow was as furrowed with intrigue and confusion as her own.

_They are sometimes known as Black Angels, or Angels of Revenge. The others, however, are far less vicious. They are the Angels of Incompletion, Anneliisa’s kindred spirits, and desirous of putting their spirit and legacy to rest as it should. They are intriguing; like their counterparts they share the colossal black wings and Presence, but are far less likely to use this force negatively._

_Finally, Anneliisa spoke of me. She says that all wizards can see Angels as children, but, as their magic develops, only a tiny amount become like me. I am a Redeemer, Anneliisa tells me. One of very few who carry the necessary aura to be able to communicate with her kind – one of the few who can help them complete their journey. I believe we are chosen by a higher being, for a higher purpose._

There were some more words, added sometime later it appeared, that read: _She is gone; I have freed her._

This text was invaluable, Hermione thought immediately, and then relaxed in her seat beside Regulus, the witch and wizard absorbing the words they had read as if they were finally quenching an indomitable thirst.

“Well,” the angel eventually hedged. “That certainly answers some questions.”

Hermione huffed out a laugh, and upon returning home settled in the lounge with a stiff drink as she came to terms with what she’d read, convinced that she’d have to write a book on the topic once things had been taken care of with Regulus’ fulfilment.

||3||

The first step in rehabilitating Malfoy in the eyes of polite society, at least in Hermione’s view, was to place him out and about, at her side, doing perfectly innocuous activities: like having business lunches, introducing him to the muggle world to help with volunteer work there, and, naturally, trying _not_ to seem romantically entangled.

Surprisingly, the Malfoy heir was rather malleable when it came to rebuilding his image, but then, Hermione supposed, if image was your life then you’d do just about anything to rescue it from the pits. The first time she’d suggested the muggle world to him, he’d balked and then answered rather tightly that perhaps they should venture somewhere closer to home. She’d given him a look that only Mrs Weasley could’ve worn better, and he’d folded to her plan with relative grace (especially after she’d pointed out that by sneaking a few trips there before being seen in Diagon Alley together, his muggle-friendly façade would be far less likely to contain any faux-pas).

His agreement was why, one sunny Saturday afternoon in Spring, Hermione and Draco found themselves travelling via train to Offley, in Hertfordshire, Draco watching the other passengers with absorbing eyes, trying to remember all the little titbits of information the bushy-haired witch had taught him over the past few weeks regarding muggles and gardening and tools (they were headed to rebuild and revamp a playground that had been demolished by careless Death Eaters, a casualty of boredom and malice – she had cross-referenced all her volunteer work to try and do her bit for the muggle world).

Hermione had been working at the site for a while, clearing rubble and beginning work on the new design, and when the unlikely pair arrived that morning she was greeted by a number of people, old and young, male and female – a number of whom felt bold enough to make very unsubtle suggestions regarding her interest in the handsome blond man she’d brought as a tag along. She’d blushed and laughed it off, and Draco dismissed the nervous jerk of his stomach.

By the end of the day, the playground was almost complete and even Draco felt some pride in the work he’d done, manual labour though it had been. Hermione had given him a pleased smile, and he’d grinned lopsidedly in return as they surveyed the near-finished site.

Three weeks after that, Draco had consented to stand behind a bake-sale stall to raise money for a tiny village school that had been half-destroyed by fire (the muggles believed teenage delinquents to be at fault, but, as both witch and wizard knew, the damage had really been done by the Death Eaters Mulciber and Travers during a muggle-baiting episode).

Initially Draco had been reticent, but Hermione (after a week and a half of intense schooling in muggle money) shamelessly roped him into helping her sell them, knowing that his presence would attract all the teenage girls in the vicinity, and then found herself next day holding a muggle newspaper with the headline “Youth Front Rehabilitation Fete”, and a nice accompanying, colour photo of her and Draco selling octopus cupcakes. She’d sent the clipping to him through owl post and he’d written a short satirical message back that went along the lines of ‘if only my ancestors could see me now’. Hermione had laughed and caved finally to the idea that maybe a trip to a Wizarding locale sometime soon wouldn’t be amiss, though she knew that it would require no little amount of planning for things to run smoothly.

Not to mention, she still had to forewarn her friends (Draco Malfoy wasn’t the kind of person you just sprung on them if his continued existence was desired). She owled Harry, inviting him and Teddy for an early lunch the next Thursday, before they were all to go out on a trip to the enormous, new Diagon Alley Baby Emporium (Harry had been wanting to visit to find some more baby-things for the young metamorphmagus). Her plan was to relax her best friend and then ease him into the news and have it spread from there. Easy.

Somehow, though, ‘next Thursday’ was suddenly ‘today’ and she found herself with company and no plan for easing Harry into the knowledge of her budding (dare she say it) friendship with Malfoy, and although she’d never truly practiced procrastination in school, Hermione was finding herself to be quite fond of the concept. She let it push the need to tell Harry about her business with Malfoy right to the back of her mind.

“Hermione,” Harry stated from his seat in the lounge, his voice clear as it entered the kitchen, “Teddy’s laughing at the wall again.”

Hermione, her back turned away from her friend as she put the teacups away into the cupboard, grinned. No doubt he was really laughing at Regulus. The angel was quite taken with the baby, she’d realised. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Harry,” she called back. “It’s probably normal baby behaviour; who knows why they find things like that funny?”

“I s’pose,” Harry conceded half-heartedly. “I can’t help but think, though, there might be some weird Black spell or something that only attracts babies. Silly, isn’t it?”

Hermione waived his words away and swiftly changed the subject. It wasn’t right on the mark, but she didn’t really want Harry to become suspicious and she hadn’t had time yet to look up the information regarding angels. “Don’t be so paranoid, Harry. Teddy’s fine.  I heard from Molly the other day that business is going more than smoothly for George. I haven’t been in to see him for ages,” she said a little guiltily. “Last time I went my hair was turned Malfoy-blonde for a week.”

“I remember,” Harry said with a pert grin. “Can’t say it suited you terribly well... George looked like he was going to have kittens; apparently it was meant to be tested on Lee.”

“I heard,” Hermione replied, coming to lean her elbows on the back of her chair, her chin resting on her hands. “Speaking of, did you know Lee and Hazel Clearwater are going out? She’s the older sister of Percy’s old girlfriend. Interesting, isn’t it?”

“Ginny might’ve mentioned that actually,” Harry mused. “But I know what you mean. She was Head Girl when we were first years – it’s so weird. Things have changed so much,” he added, the sentence weighted heavily. He smiled apologetically. There are some things too big to be forgotten and, when you’ve lived through a war, melancholy and memories have a way of surfacing at the barest disturbance.

“Come on, Harry,” Hermione cajoled. “Let’s get going - else we’ll be stuck here with a bottle or two of Ogden’s best, and I know you wanted to get some things from Diagon Alley for Teddy.”

Harry nodded quick agreement. “You’re right. _As usual_ ,” he added with a fond smile. He pushed the chair out with a screech and stood to collect Teddy’s things, and Hermione moved to fetch the baby.

“Diagon Alley, eh?” Regulus asked from his seat against the wall. “I might tag along – keep you company so you don’t get bored of Scruffy over there.” A wistful look came over him. “Besides, I haven’t been to Diagon in so long. I think I miss it.”

Hermione, who’d been about to refuse his presence with them, caved like she did every time he so much as hinted at his lifeless-ness.

“Alright,” she whispered her consent as she hauled Teddy onto her hip. “But be polite when I can hear you and stop trying to distract me when I’m talking to Harry. I can’t help you if they lock me up in St Mungo’s for acting like a crazy person.”

“Shan’t say a word,” Regulus promised, holding a finger to his lips. But Hermione very much doubted he’d last the whole trip.

Diagon Alley was busy these days, the repairs having been made after the war drawing new retailers as well as the old, and Hermione happily pointed things out to Teddy and cooed over his enthusiasm as they made their way to Lassiter’s Baby Emporium.

It seemed that the new families were out in droves when they entered; mothers, babies, panicky husbands and a harassed looking woman with four boys of the same age were milling about the place trying to get the attention of a number of stressed shop assistants.

“Wow,” Harry noted. “We really picked our day.”

“I suppose we’d better get started,” Hermione suggested, hoisting Teddy back up into her arms; he’d been trying his damndest to escape her and get a hold of an enormous stuffed lion.

“What a poor, unfortunate woman,” Regulus stated blandly, watching as two of the harassed woman’s boys upended a display (a kindly employee righted it with a flick of his wand, but the woman looked at the end of her tether). “Excuse me,” the angel said, and stalked over to where the four boys stood giggling and smiled unpleasantly. Hermione winced pre-emptively, wondering what he was planning and then it happened.

The lights flickered, a pressure filled the air around them, and Regulus’ great black wings unfurled.

She was both grateful and annoyed that she couldn’t hear the words he spoke but what really caught her attention was the fact that every eye under the age of five was focused unwaveringly on the angel. They could all see him!

Hermione stole a look at Harry, but he seemed as oblivious as all the other parents appeared to be. How curious.

The two brothers shared identical looks of awe and sheepishness after Regulus finished with them and went to stand stolidly at their mother’s side, joined soon after by their other brothers. She was confused at their sudden acquiescence to her pleas, but thankful nonetheless that they’d settled enough to _not_ embarrass her at every corner. It seemed when they left that the entire room breathed a sigh of relief.

“That was kind,” Hermione breathed to the angel when he marched haughtily back to her side. Teddy reached for him, but Hermione provided Crackles instead and the baby’s attention was immediately diverted to slobbering on the toy’s head.

“All in day’s work,” Regulus replied magnanimously, making Hermione snort and causing Harry to remove his focus from the enormous pile of baby products he’d been examining.

“What?” the bespectacled boy asked, but Hermione waived his question aside and kept her secrets to herself.

“I’m just going over here, Harry,” she said, and wandered away to the other end of the store where she could converse with Regulus unhindered aside from Teddy’s incoherent gurgles. “Did you know that would happen?” she asked him excitedly, making sure her voice wasn’t going to carry. “They were all looking! Every single one of those children could see you.”

“I had a feeling,” Regulus explained, “but I wasn’t sure it would work. Though it seems that, aside from you, my dear Redeemer, it’s only children who can see angels.”

“I wonder whether it’s an age thing; like muggles believing in fairies and magic but then growing to ignore it, even when it’s staring them in the face?” Hermione mused.

“Possibly,” Regulus offered. “How interesting.”

When they left the shop, Harry carried his godson while Regulus and Hermione both kept an eye on the children wandering down Diagon, the angel occasionally speaking to the ones who weren’t being observed with a hawk-eye by their parents. It seemed that around the age of five or six there appeared a barrier – curious.

Then, an older boy, probably eleven or twelve, approached. He was looking directly at Regulus, and he said, quite unworriedly, “‘Scuse me, could you please tell me where Fortescue’s is from here?”

Regulus, surprised, mumbled: “Sure, go straight, past the Menagerie and it should be to the left.”

“Thanks,” the boy replied with a grateful smile and darted off. Regulus watched him go, gobsmacked. Hermione, however, was already coming to a new conclusion.

“He’s another one,” she said, intrigued. “He’s a redeemer, like me! This is getting more and more fascinating, Regulus. I’m going to have to write a paper on this; it’s too important and interesting to be brushed under the carpet.”

“So it seems,” Regulus answered vaguely. “You know, it’s weird having people talk to me again, having them see me.” Hermione smiled gently. “But you’d better let Scruffy know about my charming blond cousin or things’ll go tits up, Curly,” the angel continued tritely.

She made to scold him for his language, but the angel let out a bark of laughter and vanished instead, leaving her feeling strangely alone in the crowded alleyway. She hurried to catch up with Harry and Teds, and after an hour or so of browsing – bookshops, stationary and Quidditch stores all thoroughly examined for new material – they returned to Harry’s place for some afternoon refreshment.

“By the way, Harry,” Hermione added lightly as she moved towards the floo at the end of her visit, “don’t be surprised if you see me lunching with Malfoy in the future. I’m working to rehabilitate him.”

She didn’t bother looking back to see Harry’s face (she had pictured it perfectly: complete incomprehension followed immediately by utter bewilderment) but she heard the beginning of his confused cry before she threw the powder into the flames and fled the scene. She’d decided on the spur of the moment to drop the bomb, as it were, and flee to give the boy some time to dwell on her new business relationship with the young Malfoy.

Hopefully, her speedy exit would indicate to Harry that she didn’t fancy arguing with him on the topic, but she could do no more than cross her fingers when it came down to that understanding.

||4||

The day of their carefully selected outing, Hermione waited impatiently for Draco to arrive by Floo at Number Twelve. She talked quietly with Regulus, the only indication of her edginess the constant bouncing of her foot, the pair of them discussing ideas for the retrieval of his body and how she should go about gathering Draco (and therefore Abraxas)’s blood to pass the time.

The fireplace flared and Draco stepped out of the emerald flames neatly, impressively dressed. Hermione felt somewhat dowdy just being in the same room.

“Ready?” he questioned, and Hermione suddenly realised, with some surprise, that the unpleasant undertones she’d come always to associate with Draco’s speech to her had vanished completely. There was nothing cruel – nothing rude – anymore. It was just plain friendliness.

“Hermione?” he half-sang at her, an amused smile on his face. “Are we going, or not?”

“Yes, right, of course,” Hermione blurted, grabbing her purse and launching into a standing position. “Going.”

“Are you alright?” Draco asked her, concern mixed in with the amusement. Hermione mustered up a scowl and he laughed. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, I’m fine’. But we’d best be going, then.”

Hermione hummed her agreement and so the pair were enveloped by the emerald flames that would transport them to Diagon Alley.

Immediately upon their arrival, Hermione could feel the eyes of bystanders following them, and if _she_ could tell they were being stared at then Draco must have felt like he had a target on his back. The whispers were just as bad, but thankfully they diminished somewhat when the unlikely pair entered the café as planned.

A waitress came up to ask for their order, but only after the manager whispered urgently to her that business was business and any publicity is good publicity. Draco chose a chocolate and coconut friand and coffee, while Hermione splurged, to Draco ongoing amusement, on an enormous iced-chocolate and a berry tart. They spoke casually of the work they’d done in the muggle world, looking for all the world like friends, and, despite the whispered jibes from the public, in the end the day turned out to be a good one.

Draco murmured as they left the café that Malfoys were used to being at the centre of attention, it came with the title, whereupon Hermione interjected that she’d thought it to be the infamy that drew stares. He’d stilled, and she thought perhaps she’d taken it too far, but then her companion smiled and conceded the point graciously, much to the surprise of all the witches and wizards within earshot.

Frankly, Hermione couldn’t help but find the day a success, particularly when several prominent members of society, well-respected elders indeed, came forward to ask after Narcissa or commend Hermione on her part in the war. Many were curious about their relationship, and were provided the truth, however they would then take it was up to them: Hermione Granger was actively involved in the rehabilitation of Draco Malfoy in this post-war society that was so far from the future for which his childhood had groomed him.

Unfortunately, the trouble wasn’t to come from the ordinary witch or wizard. The trouble would come, as it always does, from printed sources, where readers mistakenly take them for their word when all that really matters to a paper or magazine is its sales, and truth be damned.

The Prophet’s headline the next morning read in glaringly obvious block letters: _War Hero Lunches With Branded Death Eater_. It was followed by a load of nonsense and speculation, with the only correct information being the fact that she and Draco had indeed lunched together perfectly companionably in Two Bludgers Café the previous day.

Hermione took one look at the paper and threw it into the rubbish.

||5||

Ginny Weasley was a bright young thing, nobody could honestly say otherwise. She’d arrived on the doorstep of the old Black property at Grimmauld Place with a copy of the offending newspaper to find out what was really going on since Harry was neither coherent in his explanation nor very informative.

“So,” Ginny demanded curiously, “‘War Hero Lunches With Branded Death Eater’ – care to tell me how the blazes that happened?”

“It’s business, Gin,” Hermione explained. _Business not to be discussed_ , she added in the privacy of her mind. Her thoughts turned to the main cause of their business transaction; Regulus Black. She’d grown fond of the angel, snarky and mad as he was, and his nearing closure would be a sad and powerful moment, Hermione couldn’t help but think. She’d grown used to his presence in the desolate Number Twelve, gotten attached to his commentaries whenever they were out and about, and even enjoyed his company over the last few months.

She’d miss him at the end of all this.

The curly-haired brunette hadn’t realised her mind was wandering until Ginny poked her cheek, saying with a scowl, “Hoi, Hermione, are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry, Gin,” Hermione apologised, shaking her head gently to clear it. “I was off in the clouds.”

“Cloud nine, more like,” Ginny drawled, “judging by that smile.”

Hermione tried to stay the blush threatening to bleed into her cheeks.

“You don’t seem like you’re in love with _Malfoy_ ,” Ginny pondered aloud. “Is there someone else – some dashing, marvellous, book-devouring, saucy man – you’ve not told me about? You _cow_!” she concluded dramatically.

Hermione snorted. “Looking after Malfoy is about as much man-in-my-life that I can handle right now,” she noted dryly.

“Perhaps,” Ginny yielded, relaxing back in her chair with an air of suppressed knowledge, “but it looks to me like you’re staring at a ‘somebody else’ in this photo; somebody sitting in that empty seat, right there.” She tapped the moving picture on the front page. Indeed, it showed Draco looking posh with Hermione opposite, the girl gazing directly at the headspace of an empty seat, a half smile on her face.

Nervously, Hermione glanced at the newspaper. “Don’t be ridiculous, there’s no-one there, Gin.”

“Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Ginny commented sagely with a cock of the eyebrow that was halfway between sly and jaunty. “Just make sure you tell me one day.”

Hermione said nothing; neither admission nor denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: “He’s laughing at the wall again,” is from the movie ‘Heart and Souls’, with Robert Downey Jr.


	3. iii.

||1||

Irritatingly, Hermione and Draco’s recent companionship remained the only news the Prophet felt at all inclined to report on in the otherwise uneventful Post-War, and with each day the speculations grew more and more unlikely while the sources looked less and less genuine. Then, almost a month after the daring venture, Hermione was perusing the paper half-heartedly when she glimpsed a small article on page four titled ‘ _Redemption Possible for Young Death Eater_ ’. She released a squeak of interest that caused the spectral form of Regulus, currently attempting to pick up a tea spoon, to gaze up at her.

“Is that the sound peasants make when they’re presented with difficult words?” he asked mockingly, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Regulus went back to his attempts with a sigh.

Intrigued, Hermione began to read the column, and, for the first time, was startled to find a journalist willing to give Draco a chance. The writer mentioned familial loyalty, age, fear, and even Draco’s budding experiences in muggle relations and offered as a conclusion that if Hermione was willing to be seen with him and treat him as a human being then the rest of the population could damn well learn to forgive him, too.

She’d just finished, finding herself pleasantly surprised, when she saw the floo in the lounge flare, depositing Draco neatly onto her hearth rug.

“Morning,” he greeted uneasily as he entered the kitchen.

Regulus saluted without looking up and replied jauntily: “Morning, Blondie.”

Draco, unable to see or hear him, didn’t notice while Hermione merely hummed in reply and said: “Tea’s in the kitchen.”

Draco poured a cup and joined her at the table, sitting opposite and hugging it with his hands to glean the warmth. “Do you really not mind what the papers are saying?” he asked after a few moments of weighted silence.

“It’s really not any of my business what others say about me,” she replied, but then, unable to hold the expression back any longer, she beamed: “Of course, the tide has turned, it seems.”

She pushed the paper towards him.

Draco read intently, looking stunned when he reached the end of the column.

“Things are looking up,” Hermione assured him with a fond smile, coming around to lean on the back of his chair. Draco looked between her and the newspaper several times – clearly astounded – before launching himself at her, wrapping his arms about her waist and lifting her up into the air, hugging her tightly. She squealed in surprise.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely as he put her down (she gave him a half-shrug, blushing bright red). He wet his lips with his tongue nervously and added: “I guess it’s time for me to hand over my part of the bargain.”

Regulus spun sharply to stare intensely at the blonde, his gaze only once flicking to Hermione’s wide eyes.

“Now? Are you sure?” she asked in astonishment.

“What kind of wizard would I be to back out of a promise when you’ve done the impossible?”

“ _Improbable_ , more like,” Hermione corrected, but she smiled gladly at him and said as she gently grasped his forearm: “Thank you, Draco – really, I mean it.”

He smiled back at her. “It’s funny how life turns out, isn’t it? I never thought I’d be coming over to Hermione Granger’s house on a Sunday morning, voluntarily no less, with no nefarious thoughts whatsoever.”

“This is turning into a schmooze-fest,” Regulus bit out, though he was clearly still elated by Draco’s concession. “Let’s get the blood and get going, team.”

“Oh, shush,” Hermione scolded.

Draco raised an eyebrow at the exchange. “You know, hearing only half of these dialogues is really very disconcerting.”

“And you can shush, too,” she directed, prodding him in the chest.

The materials required for the extraction of blood were fairly few and simple when it came to magical methods. Hermione had sterilised a handful of vials, thoroughly ensuring that they wouldn’t compromise the blood they would soon contain; she cleaned her wand as well, reviewed the required spell and swabbed the blond’s arm more to appease her muggle upbringing than out of necessity.

“Ready?” she asked Draco, raising her wand. He grimaced slightly.

“As ever I am for medical procedures,” he acknowledged.

“Wuss. I had Dragon Pox once, and Mother bled me twice a day, but _I_ never complained,” Regulus scoffed.

“Don’t be a baby,” Hermione scolded Draco through a smile aimed at Regulus. The blond narrowed his eyes, aware that the angel had communicated something to her that he couldn’t hear. “The muggle way is much worse.”

She pressed the tip of her wand to the cleaned area of Draco’s forearm and murmured the incantation. Twisting it clockwise, she caught Draco’s wince of pain at the movement before her attention was transferred to the vials, the first of which had slowly filled already and the second which was starting to do the same.

“So, the rite that will go with my blood,” Draco hedged, “and I gather there will be one – what does it entail?”

“Well, your part is solely giving us the blood sample,” Hermione explained. “Everything else will be up to me and Regulus.”

“You intend to go alone?” Draco asked as his brow creased into a frown.

“Well, technically I’ll have Regulus with me.”

“That’s not acceptable,” Draco stated firmly. “I’m coming with you. I’d feel better and so would you, I’d wager.”

“How noble,” Regulus murmured slyly, linking his fingers beneath his chin. “And terribly un-Slytherin. It seems the snake is shedding his skin – I bet a bloody badger comes out.”

Hermione ignored this comment and pulled her wand back, swabbing the space once again.

“You know that’s not necessary, right?” the spectre added. “The wand method doesn’t really pierce the skin.”

“I know,” she snapped. “It just makes me feel better, is all.”

“Now, now, there’s no need for rudeness,” Regulus countered. Hermione poked out her tongue. Deftly she changed the conversation.

“Where’s the book, Regulus?”

“Library. On the floor.” He wrinkled his nose. It had been too heavy for him to lift, though he’d tried several times.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she told them and ducked out of the room, abandoning Draco to the invisible man.

Regulus looked at his blond cousin. Knowing the other boy couldn’t hear, but somehow hoping his message would sink in nonetheless, he said quietly: “Draco Malfoy, you blond git, you like our Miss Granger. So I’ll just say this: if you hurt Hermione I will make your afterlife supremely unpleasant.”

The creak of the bottom stair signalled Hermione’s return and both heads, dark and light, turned expectantly to the doorway.

“Got it,” she grinned, holding up the book. “Page four fifty-one, isn’t it, Regulus?”

“Correct.”

“Ah, here we go,” she said in satisfaction as she flipped over to the correct page. There was a lengthy explanation which noted the spell and effects of their intended reversal.

“That’s disgusting,” Draco got in first, immediately before Hermione cried out in revulsion as they took in the pictures that accompanied the text. Hermione quickly moved on to read the paragraphs in appalled silence.

 “The spell is ‘ _retromors_ ’,” Hermione read aloud. “It transforms the bodies back to how they were the moment they died, returning them to resting dead. But it’s going to be a mass grave. Scores of bodies will be uncovered, I’m sure of it – because Harry said that the Inferi were countless when he first went there with Dumbledore.” She missed the flinch at their former Headmaster’s name. He may not have succeeded in his horrid task, but Draco still felt guilty over the old man’s death, even though he’d found the man truly insupportable.

“There should be a vial somewhere in the cave with your grandfather’s blood in it,” Hermione postulated, “which will need to be destroyed and replaced with your own for when we perform the spell.”

“Well, that seems easy enough,” Draco said hopefully.

“Which probably means it won’t be anything of the sort,” Regulus noted tartly. Hermione chose not to repeat the remark to Draco. It wouldn’t do to have doubts like that hovering over them both.

||2||

They spent the rest of the day planning the event, and Hermione encouraged Draco to review spells and teach her anything useful from his repertoire that she may not have encountered before –excluding, of course, anything _too_ dark. Her morals were still pointed due North, after all.

It was a quarter to nine the next morning when the epiphany that Regulus would no longer be around hit her. Draco had returned home in the early hours of the morning and Hermione was content to lie in her bed for a while, staring at her old Defence textbook from sixth year. The work they’d squeezed into the day before had made her tired, but Regulus was still buoyed by Draco’s fulfilment of the bargain and as such was wandering around the place humming to himself, answering any questions she posed as best he could or directing her to the books that would hold the required knowledge, until eventually, as he was wont to do, he disappeared. Hermione was stunned by the sheer normalcy of the place in his absence; the room looked exactly as it had the very first day she’d seen him, and for some reason it made her heart break.

She’d grown used to the angel – almost expected his presence in her home these days – and now she was going to lose him forever. A heaviness fell over her whole being as she realised the full implication of what they were to do in the coming days.

Her reaction began quite tamely, but then her breathing quickened as she thought of complications, of results, of Regulus and Draco and Harry – everything was tumbling and jumbling together. Lies, secrets, discoveries – she was involved in something far greater than most human minds could ever deal with; something even greater than most magical folk could manage. Her breathing now on the cusp of hyperventilation, she could think of only one other person in her distress with whom she might be able to discuss her quandary – in half a breath, she had already Apparated away, her desperation overwhelming the three Ds and taking her where she needed to be with seamless ease.

O

If there was anyone in the world who would believe unquestioningly in Angels it would be Luna Lovegood, she thought as the peculiar residence of the Lovegood family swirled into her view.  Hermione stumbled blindly up the path, her sight blurred by tears, and thankfully her frantic knocks were answered by the ethereal Ravenclaw who directed her into a squishy green chair, handed her some tea (not gurdy root, she was grateful to note) and then solemnly handed over a significant wad of tissues.

“Now,” Luna said after Hermione had recovered a little dignity. “What on earth has you in such a state?”

Taking a fortifying breath, Hermione looked her friend in the eye. “Luna, have you heard of Angels?”

“Oh, yes,” Luna responded. “Sadly, I can’t see them, but I’ve felt their Presence a few times. Most people I’ve talked to don’t believe in them. They think they’re just stories.”

“I don’t think that,” Hermione murmured.

Luna looked at her sympathetically.

“You can see them, can’t you?” she said understandingly. Hermione nodded. “Well, then – in your own time. Talking will make you feel better.”

Luna, unsurprisingly, was right on that count.

Hermione talked almost without pausing for breath, explaining the appearance of Regulus, his dubious decisions in the past and his eventual demise, as well as her growing relationship with Draco. She talked of Harry and how she’d lied to him, tentatively conveyed the idea for her book on Angels, and by the end felt so much lighter that she couldn’t help the sigh that followed.

“You should talk to Harry,” Luna told her afterwards. “Fill him in on all the details. You’re struggling to keep it from him and you need him on your side anyway. He’s your brother in everything but blood, Hermione.”

The brunette bit her lip softly and Luna reached out to hold her hand, squeezing gently.

“Everything will fall into place,” she said confidently. “It always does.”

||3||

Teddy was sitting in his high chair, though ‘restrained’ was probably more accurate. Harry had discovered the hard way just how clever the little wizard was when Teddy succeeded in working out, after a mere two minutes, how to unclasp the magical lock, shin down the exterior of the chair, climb over the cushioning charm at its base and almost cause his godfather a heart attack when he turned from the stove to see an empty chair.

Intelligently, Harry had turned to Molly Weasley who, in raising the twins, had a complete arsenal of childcare tricks. Teddy wasn’t going anywhere this time around and he knew it; Hermione hid a smile as she took in his somewhat put-out expression.

“So,” Harry said, passing her a mug of tea. “What did you want to talk about? You sounded pretty serious through the floo the other day – it’s not Malfoy, is it?”

“No,” she denied with a fond smile. “He’s actually doing superbly, I’ll have you know.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“I did offer a cupcake if you came to the bake sale in Offley,” Hermione said before returning decisively to topic. “No, I’m here because, well, I need to tell you some things, Harry.”

“Oh, god, you’re not pregnant are you?” he interrupted quickly.

“No!”

“Oh, good,” he breathed. “You just sounded like Ange is all, when she announced her impending baby boom at the Burrow.”

“Well, I’m not pregnant,” she told him firmly. “It’s rather more complicated than the circle of life as we know it.” Unconsciously she began to wring her hands. “You see, I- I’ve not been completely honest with you lately, Harry.”

He raised a brow.

“You remember a while back when I asked you about those who laid down their lives for the fight against Voldemort?” He nodded. “And you said ‘like Regulus’?”

“Yes,” Harry drew out the word cautiously.

“There was a bit more to it than that,” she confessed. “Now, because I know that you’ll not have any idea about the folklore I’m about to tell you, please don’t interrupt me. It’s very important and I’m sure it will all make sense when I get to the end, but try and wait ‘til then before you come to any conclusions. Please.”

“Alright,” he agreed.

Hermione took a deep breath and began her tale. “Several months ago I woke to find a presence in Grimmauld Place. At first I thought it was just a trick of my mind, or the light, but it as it turns out I was party to an aspect of Wizarding folklore of which even the purebloods are sceptical.

“They’re called Angels – restless spirits who cannot pass on to the Otherworld to rest in peace. In some ways they’re like ghosts, but they’re categorised in two ways – vengeful spirits and the incomplete,” Hermione explained. “Additionally, they can be seen only by a rare few with the necessary magical qualities. Curiously enough, I’m one of them.”

Harry looked warily sceptical.

“Luckily, my experience has been solely with the latter type of Angel,” she continued with barely a pause. “The spectral residue of Regulus Black has been waiting since nineteen seventy nine to be released and remembered – and I, being me,” she said with a deprecating laugh, “am the one to do it. Typical, isn’t it?”

“I don’t quite understand,” Harry admitted. “I mean, I believe you – you’re not one to lie without reason – but Regulus is… an _angel_?”

“Yes. Though they’re not at all like what we’d imagine, or what muggles imagine.” Hermione felt relief at Harry’s statement but still she hesitated. He was struggling to wrap his head around it – Draco had at least heard the stories from his family.

“Teddy can see him, too,” she offered tentatively. “All babies can, though once the magic manifests or is channelled through a wand the ability is reduced to only a select few.”

“I should’ve thought I’d be able to, given that I’m Master of Death,” Harry said with a self-effacing grimace. “But I’m glad I can’t, to be honest. It’s nice when things happen to other people.”

Hermione smiled. “I can finally say ‘ _I know what you mean_ ’.”

Harry, being The Chosen One, and therefore experienced in peculiar happenings, was full of helpful ideas and comments in the discussion that followed, his Auror training shining through in the manner with which he dealt with the information offered and, frankly, the whole bizarre situation.

“If there’s nothing else you think is of paramount importance then I’ll start on Kingsley immediately,” Harry stated. They’d decided to involve the Minister due to his link to the Order and the DMLE, but Hermione was glad to have someone she could also count as a friend. Since he was now Minister for Magic, the entire event would receive the acknowledgement it deserved on a basic level while Regulus would receive his hoped-for recognition.

She commented on this to Harry, who again frowned lightly.

“So, his completion requires you to retrieve his body?” he checked.

Hermione nodded. “I can’t help but think that a proper burial will probably be the clincher, but really it simply means laying the Inferi in the cave to rest – a dangerous task at best!” She fidgeted somewhat uncomfortably. “God, Harry,” she whispered with a pronounced shudder. “There’s going to be a hundred bodies in there.”

“We’ll have to call in the Auror Liaison Officers,” Harry told her with a frown. “Some of the individuals will be cold cases, and that’s from both sides of the border.”

“Creating Inferi is one of the most awful things,” Hermione said sadly after a moment’s silence. “To have that many bodies, to kill that many people, it’s as bad as creating horcruxes when all is said and done.”

Harry reached over to clasp her hand in his, the silence conveying all it needed. He would deal with Aurors and with the Minister, allowing Hermione to do what needed to be done without interference.

“Are you absolutely sure you won’t take the Aurors in with you?” Harry had asked as she prepared to leave, but Hermione stayed true to her plan. Too many others in the cave would cause more trouble than it was worth when it came to performing the ritual; it was dangerous, but with their growing arsenal she was confident that she and Draco could succeed. If worse came to worse, Hermione would send her patronus for help, but she wouldn’t have six men she barely knew interfering, even if it was their job.

This was her duty and Draco’s prerogative.

||4||

The dawn suggested a pleasant day but all Hermione hoped was that she’d be around to see the evening.

“Are you ready?” she asked her two companions as they stood on the rocky outcrop that would lead them into Riddle’s cave. Behind them, Harry and twelve of his team waited nervously, wands in hand.

“As ever,” Draco said. Regulus smiled, eager yet nervous. Hermione took a fortifying breath and marched onwards.

The cave looked harmless, though it felt awful. The magic it had held inside it was of the most dangerous and dark kind and over the years it had seeped into the very rock and water of the place. Frankly, Hermione wanted to turn tail and run, but she had a job to do – she’d see this through or die trying. She gulped, halting her conviction in its attempt to flee.

“Alright,” she whispered to the others, grateful that her voice didn’t crack. “We’re looking for a vial of blood. It’ll be somewhere protected, but also in prime position. Get searching, boys – and remember to stay clear of the water!”

Fifteen minutes of delicate exploration and they were no nearer their goal than when they’d started but a chance movement by Draco, engendered by anger, knocked a pile of rubble loose from a niche hidden in the rock wall.

“Here!” he called furtively. “This looks promising.”

Trapped in what seemed a deep contemplation, Regulus lagged behind as Hermione joined Draco by the cave’s perimeter.

“Give me a boost?” she asked. He complied and she peeked into the hole with ease.

There, glinting in the gentle _Lumos_ , was the vial.

The blood contained inside had a sickly black sheen to it, lending it even more malevolence than already perceived. Signalling Draco to let her down, Hermione dropped onto the cave floor.

“It’s there.” She glanced at Regulus. “But I can’t help but feel that interfering with it will give us trouble.”

“We expected trouble,” the spectre reminded her. “We’ll cross those bridges when we come to then, though, and not before.”

She nodded, swallowing nervously. After a short pause, she was lifted by Draco once again so that she was level with the hole in the rock wall.

She reached out, but as soon as her fingers touched the vial there erupted a piercing scream, joined within moments by numerous others. The three youths covered their ears, Hermione toppling to the floor as a result, the vial rolling out of her grasp, and she gave a revolted gasp when she saw what else had been set in motion: rising out of the murky water, their lifeless eyes awful and forbidding, were countless Inferi.

Draco let loose a string of choice profanities, during which the screaming abruptly halted.

Unfortunately, the advance of the walking dead did not similarly abate. The two unyielding figures quickly released a spate of defensive spells at the horde of Inferi but most had no effect, and only the fire based magic gave the walking dead any cause to hesitate.

“Fire, Draco!” Hermione cried, disabling two Inferi with one spell. “Use fire – it’s the only thing that will work!”

Adrenaline took over.

There were too many of them to keep up any kind of substantial defence as each fleeting victory was tailed by at least two new attacks. It was like dealing with a hydra.

Regulus, untouchable to the horde, darted between them, chasing the vial as it bounced against the rock floor. With a combination of desperation, luck and concentration, he managed to pick it up and force his way back to the others.

They were, thankfully, in reach of the niche where Draco’s blood needed to be settled, and Hermione, acting almost as quickly as she thought, retrieved the new vial from her belt and, with Draco at her back, levitated it skilfully to replace its grandsire.

The loss of her additional wand-work allowed the Inferi to regroup and their attacks seemed to double in Draco’s eyes. He sent spells this way and that, working furiously, but the Inferi bore down heavily, their immense numbers giving them a clear advantage. Once the blood successfully installed, Regulus tossed the old vial to Hermione. She caught it deftly, and placed it purposefully on the floor.

“Any time now, Hermione,” Draco cried desperately as one of the creatures grasped his arm. He sliced the dead limb away with liquid fire, knocking the mutilated creature back violently.

Hermione aimed her wand at the original vial.

“ _Bombarda_.”

It burst spectacularly, completely destroyed by the spell, leaving only a spattering of blood to stain the ground. A line of orange passed over her shoulder; she spun to see Draco’s spell toppling the two Inferi behind her against a third and stumbled back awkwardly, removing herself from their reach. She took a moment to return the favour when several of the dead creatures surged forward against the valiantly fighting blond, but when he waved a salute that managed to say both ‘thank you’ and ‘do the fucking spell already’ she returned her attention to his blood.

The wall of Inferi surged forward relentlessly, and it was with barely any time to spare that Hermione executed the spell.

“ _Retromors_!” she screamed, sending the jet of light at the replacement vial just as one of the dead men’s hands clamped around her ankle and another latched onto Draco’s shoulder.

A bright white orb exploded into existence.

Instantly, the horde of Inferi collapsed, visible changes coming over them as they reverted from the tattered grey forms to figures that may as well have been sleeping, they were so peaceful in death.

Breathing heavily, Hermione looked at her friends with a wide, overtaxed expression.

“Morgana’s tits,” Draco expounded, pulling back his fringe and looking directly at his newly visible cousin. Regulus exhaled staggeringly, staring fixatedly at the light.

“Cousin,” Draco said weakly. “I see you now.”

Regulus turned, his eyes wide, and Draco offered a tentative hand, the remnants of his polite upbringing shining through. They shook, Regulus’ own hand having solidified now to an almost human density.

The words that passed between them then went unheard by the exhausted Hermione, though she absorbed their wry, solemn smiles with a strange feeling of detachment. She couldn’t have said for how long they spoke; all her attention was fixed on remaining upright.

However, the moment Regulus’ glance flickered to her face recent events suddenly caught her up with all the impact of a freight train.

||5||

She couldn’t help it; she burst into tears.

“Why are you crying?” Regulus cajoled, broaching the space between them. “This is supposed to be a _happy_ ending.”

Hermione released a watery laugh. “It’s just,” she said guiltily. “I’ve sort of gotten used to having you around… and there were so many Inferi – you know, I haven’t been so frightened in such a long time – and now you’re going to – to _move on_.”

There was a heavy silence where Regulus smiled wistfully and Hermione hurriedly wiped at her teary eyes.

“Come here,” he instructed and Hermione obeyed without pause, stepping forward until she was only a hands-breadth away from him. Regulus closed the distance and encircled her with his arms. His touch, once completely imperceptible, felt like feathers caressing her skin; his gentle grasp moved to cup her head against his chest as she silently let her tears fall, and Hermione was only barely aware of Draco stepping away out of respect.

“I can’t thank you enough, Hermione,” Regulus whispered into her ear as she hugged him to her more tightly. “Without you I would never have found this opportunity, never had any hope of this.”

“I didn’t really do anything,” she said wetly and Regulus wiped the tear tracks away with his thumbs, holding her face so she was looking directly at him.

“You saw me,” he said firmly. “You agreed to help me and that’s all I could have asked for.” He pressed a feather-soft kiss to her forehead, and she sniffled as he added tenderly: “My journey is almost complete, thanks to _you_ , Hermione Granger.”

The bright white light behind them pulsated and Regulus closed his eyes blissfully.

“Redemption is so very sweet,” he breathed. “Please, Hermione, send me home.”

She nodded shakily and wiped her eyes clear of tears.

A calming breath was drawn, and then Hermione felt the ancient ritual come alive.

“ _Avem qalut salacia_ ,” she said, knowing the words though she had never heard or read them before, utilising a language not of their world. “ _Sinqulum felix atarnem qe. Eltanes hum delri, nar qilim sint as begam._ ”

A rumble filled the cave and Draco anxiously tightened his grip on the hawthorn wand as Hermione continued to speak. He held it ready, just in case the removal of the magic which had coated the place caused the ceiling to fall in, and occupied a defensive stance.

Hermione was working off her own instinct, her unique role as a Redeemer allowing her magic to direct her words and actions. Later, Draco would recount the way her hair seemed to crackle with energy, her skin taking on an ethereal glow that matched the light which surrounded Regulus.

“ _Qeno angelus helat aRex, avem qalut salacia_ ,” she concluded on a crescendo, her closed eyes snapping open.

There was an overwhelming fluctuation of light and sight was temporarily removed as a deafening silence hit the chamber. It was accompanied by the same intense feeling of suffocation as when Regulus had frightened Hermione with the Presence on their second meeting. This time, however, the raw power had increased ten-fold.

For a moment, time was suspended. The light diminished and Hermione could see the silhouette of her spectral friend right in the centre of the orb, his arms spread wide as he floated in a sea of light, his vast black wings reaching out to their full span.

The pressure intensified until Hermione thought she would surely explode, and then-

There was nothing.

The light vanished and Regulus with it; the cave had finally returned to its natural state, no longer violated by dark magic.

Hermione stared at the empty space in silence, motionless and bereft.

“You’ll have to write that book now,” Draco murmured quietly, approaching carefully from behind and gently slipping his hand into hers. Hermione gripped it tightly, not caring about the tears that rolled unremittingly down her cheeks. “Come, Potter will be worried if we don’t return soon.”

||6||

The Aurors had stopped her from looking through the bodies, stopped her from searching out Regulus. They were right to do so, but it had hurt tremendously at the time and, in the end, Draco had resorted to taking her Side-Along to Grimmauld Place and making her tea, sitting in silence with her at the old kitchen table.

Harry had turned up late in the evening, explaining the numbers and procedure from then on, but when he’d finished the business details he’d turned to her and hugged her close.

When he left he shook hands with Malfoy and gave him a crooked smile. “I never thought I’d be thankful to have you in our life,” he’d said wryly before gesturing to the kitchen with his chin. “Look after her, will you?”

“Of course,” Draco had replied simply.

Now, three weeks later, Hermione had been informed of the proceedings which would take place Sunday next. Many of the bodies had been missing members of the Order of the Phoenix from the first war, or unlucky neutrals who must have refused whatever enticement Voldemort had used to try and bring them on-side; some, happily only a very few, were unfortunate muggle victims, senselessly murdered. It had been troublesome dealing with the muggle police, but in the end closure for almost all of the muggle families was reached. Of course, now that the magical folk had been identified, the funerals could take place, as could the additions and adjustments to the war memorials.

This was the most important thing for Regulus, Hermione felt. His departure, while craved, had left her lonely and oftentimes she found herself expecting a glib reply, and when none came it hurt more than she’d anticipated.

By the time Sunday arrived on her doorstep, torrential rain and wind in tow, she was feeling rather morose. Being bedecked entirely in black wasn’t helping matters either.

A knock on her door made her start, and she answered it to find Draco, impeccably attired and possessed of a very smug self-assurance, waiting there for her.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“I suppose,” she murmured. He clearly didn’t believe her, because he gave her a once over and then pushed her back inside.

“Oh, no, Granger” he said firmly. “This is not how we’re going to send off my cousin. You’re going into the bathroom and turning yourself into the girl who attended the Yule Ball. None of this Babbity Rabbity-look you’ve got going right now.”

“But-” Hermione tried to protest. Draco cut her off.

“No. Bathroom, now!” Obediently she allowed him to hustle her in. “You’ve got ten minutes before we have to leave. Chop, chop.”

Funnily enough, taking care of her appearance had indeed had a calming effect on her – or, at least, had transferred her emotions into frustration at her hair. In the end she’d cheated and used magic to restrain it, but Draco’s face upon her exit truly made it worthwhile.

“There we go,” he said after he collected his wits. “Now, let’s get that bastard resting in peace.”

For all he was a Malfoy, occasionally Draco really stood out as a Black, Hermione thought privately as she took his arm. The Side-Apparition was smooth and she was greeted by the sight of a large podium on a darkly decorated mourning stage when they arrived at the Apparition point a moment later. The bronze memorial glowed on its right.

The Minister, Kingsley, greeted them, before personally ushering Hermione and Draco to their seats near the stage.

“This is largely a result of your concerted effort, Hermione,” he acknowledged as they reached the front. “And we can’t thank you enough – you, too, Mister Malfoy. So many families have found comfort and closure this month.”

“It was the right thing to do,” Hermione stated firmly.

It was a lovely memorial service, respectful and well organised, and Hermione was pleased to see Harry concede to pressure and give a compassionate speech that had majority of the audience weeping into their handkerchiefs. At the service’s close, the Minister’s spell set the engraving quill in motion and Hermione watched as Regulus’ name joined those of Remus and Tonks – all those who had died fighting Voldemort – on the bronze obelisk. She wiped at a stray tear and smiled at Draco.

“Well,” Harry murmured on approach. “It’s done. How do you feel?”

“Better,” Hermione admitted, her eyes welling up at the implication behind his words. For a split second she expected a glib remark from Regulus, but it was overwhelmed by the blond at her side.

 “Marginally,” Draco amended her response, “but she’s getting there. I can almost take her places.”

With that, something fell into place.

Regulus was gone – no, was finally _resting in peace_ , and though she’d miss his snarky replies, rude barbs and general snobbishness, she now had Draco to turn to, to embrace as a friend. It was okay, she realised, because Draco had, in many ways, come to fill the space in her heart that Regulus had claimed since they’d met so many months previous.

She smiled and looked at the two boys before her. “No,” she corrected. “I am much better.”

||7||

It was October. The cemetery was silent but for the sound of their footsteps on the autumn leaves that had fallen to coat the ground. They arrived at their destination and halted, both taking in the words on the pale marble:

_Regulus Arcturus Black_  
1961-1979  
+  
“Behold, a Hero’s Grave”   
  


Hermione sniffed quietly.

“Did you love him?” Draco asked solemnly, his hand gently clasping hers. She entwined their fingers, urged to tell the truth.

“In a way,” she replied evenly, her eyes fixed on the curling script. “I mean, I think I did. But he wasn’t exactly _real_ – not anymore.”

“I understand, I think.” Draco drew their linked hands to his mouth, pressing his lips gently to her slender wrist.

There was a comfortable pause, after which Hermione asked, “What did he say to you? In the cave, I mean.”

Draco smiled, remembering. “He simply said: ‘ _Take care of her Malfoy – I’ll know if you don’t.’_ And I promised him I would. Always,” he breathed earnestly, kissing her hairline.

She cuddled closer. “You have,” she declared quietly before drifting into a simple silence.

Together they stood before the marble headstone until the night surrounded them, cloaking them in darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The words Hermione recites to send Regulus ‘home’ were made up by my fingers at random, and any similarity to existing languages or words is entirely unintentional and accidental (aside from ‘Rex’ which is, naturally, ‘king’, due to ‘Regulus’).


End file.
